Death Is Only A Door (It Swings Both Ways)
by Devi Lethe
Summary: "While I thought that I was learning how to live, I have been learning how to die." Leonardo da Vinci


The first time, she was calm. It was quick, and it hurt only in the most distant sense. A hard impact, a dull resonance, but far off - like stubbing a toe in the dark. The pain was there and gone in an instant leaving her with an echo rattling her bones and a curious sense of something missing; as though she'd mislaid the feeling. As though she might find it pressed between two thoughts or lodged in her breast next to the arrow.

Oh, she thought. _Oh_.

Someone caught her around the middle even as she went boneless in their arms. Lydia slipped away before they even got her turned around, surprised by how soft it was, the darkness. It came over her with all the comfort of a favorite sweater. Warm, relaxing, exactly the right size; perfectly shaped to the essence of her. It had been waiting, hollow until she was there. And how gentle, that empty tide. How _easy_. It came like a wave, sweeping in and crested over her heart. And when it went out, she went, too. Simple. Pure. Good. It was coming home and filling a space and floating away all at once and it was beautiful. It was _welcome_.

She was fine.

Except when she slipped away she didn't get far. Only far enough to taste it. Only far enough to mourn. Inside her something caught, snagged, unraveled. Something _clutched_.

At the end of her tether someone called her name.

Lydia answered.

The first time she woke up, it was to his face smiling down at her, moonlight and shadow at war on his features and so pleased with his handiwork. With his ingenuity. He brushed a stray lock of hair from his face and said, "Welcome back."

She thought, Oh. And then, Oh. And then, _Oh..._

And it was wrong. Everything was wrong. He had the good grace to look sorry when she started weeping.

The second time, she was calm even though it wasn't quick, even though it hurt in the most immediate fashion. All the places where her skin used to be slicked up with blood, breath hitching in her chest and the Alphas laughing, laughing while she twitched away from pain she couldn't escape. She couldn't remember a time without it even when she did her best to forget, but there was one thing they couldn't take from her, one certainty they couldn't excise. The teeth finally sunk into her throat, ripping and tearing and gnawing and _it didn't stop..._

But in the heart of the moment there was a spot, a prickle at the very center spreading like cancer; until it was everything, until there was nothing. It wasn't a wave but it did take her down, under, away. It brought silence and she filled a void and if it wasn't a friend, well. It wasn't a foe, either. It was empty and pure and she was finished.

Except that she wasn't.

At the end of her tether someone pulled, grabbed, rent. Something _snarled_.

She woke up already crying, her skin slick with his blood where he'd put her back together and he said, "There now. All better."

The third time, she clutched at it, threw herself into the black. Wrapped herself in swathes and heaps and layers of it even though it chafed. Even though it felt like steel wool instead of a sweater, like being shoved in a too small space that ground against the edges of her soul. She didn't slip, she fled.

Except he caught her.

At the other end of her tether, Peter Hale dragged her back. Peter _took_.

She woke up screaming because everything, everything hurt.

He said, "Really, Lydia, this is getting ridiculous."

She ripped his throat out with her teeth.

It didn't matter. In her dreams, he pulled at his tether, tugging insistently in the dark.

He said, "You're only making this harder on yourself." Said, "You know what happens next." And she did know, because he taught her. Her blood was enough, now. He didn't even need Derek, and maybe that was the plan all along.

The first thing he saw when she woke him up was her face dry and impassive. He said, "Now you're getting it."

The fourth time, she couldn't even find the still place. The dark skittered away at the edge of her being, slithered out of reach when she tried to sink down. In his mind, she settled in a corner, stared listlessly out through his eyes.

Her sixth time, she realized there was no tether. There was only him and a space inside him shaped to fit her. A hollow that stood waiting for her to fill it. She asked, "How long are you going to bring me back?"

He smiled. "How long are you going to keep dying?"

She asked, "Do you even know what you've done to us? Do you... is this ever going to end?"

"Lydia, sweetheart, what makes you think I want it to?"

The tenth time, it barely hurt to come back to herself. Just an old ache, familiar and sharp like claws on smooth bone.

She opened her eyes to him staring down at her, moonlight and shadows at war on his face and something inside her uncoiled. A tension she hadn't known she was holding onto relaxed, melted away. It was easy, like coming home. Something inside her slotted into place. Something _aligned_.

He wrapped a hand around her throat where it had been crushed, tiny pinpricks of pain echoing in her skin and asked, "Feeling better?"

She breathed, "Yes..." Breathed it again, into his mouth, then chased it with hands and teeth and tongue. Him, she pulled down, writhing and clutching until there was no space inside them, no emptiness. Lydia dragged him closer, slicked their skin up with blood. She could remember, a little, a time when he hadn't been what slaked her hunger, when something else had wrapped around her in the dark. She thought it had been gentler, better maybe. She thought it had been _good_.

He was what she had instead and she took what she liked from him. It seemed only fair. He'd taken everything from her.


End file.
